


Seven Days

by frostytherobot



Category: Askewniverse, Dogma (1999)
Genre: Gen, idk where this is gonna end up going, some depictions of violence and heavy swearing but overall it’s fine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-07-04 11:54:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15840780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostytherobot/pseuds/frostytherobot
Summary: God convinces Metatron he needs a week off, no holy powers, no contact to Her, just mortality and time to breathe. But when he ends up back in New Jersey of all places, he starts to regret his decision, surrounded by stoners, annoying clerks, and the only human being that seems to get him.





	1. Prologue

Quiet nights in Paris are rare. Always a bustle of some crowd somewhere, coming and going from place to place in the city, and each group—each person—with a different mood. There was celebration, sorrow, anger, horror, contentment. And from where the Metatron stared atop the Notre Dame Cathedral, he could see it all. 

A pair of wings unfurled from the angel’s back, and as he stretched them out, he wondered if he could get away with stretching the other two pair as well. Not often can Metatron reveal more of his true form as a seraph without worry that a mortal will spot him and freeze in fear. A moment later and he had thought better of it; better for someone to see a shape similar to the statues adorning the church than a many eyed, many winged creature from beyond. Not that he didn’t enjoy his more humanesque form—in fact he felt it suited him well, with the slightly crooked nose, dark hair, and tired eyes. Being around God all the time can exhaust just about anyone, and he, as Her Messenger, was no exception. 

Not far from the cathedral itself was a café, where a woman sat alone at a seat nearest the window looking out to the street. Instead of gazing out, she stared downwards at the small cup of coffee in front of her. It was untouched and growing cold. The woman was far too shaky from her quiet sobs to pick it up. The Voice of God diverted his gaze.

Across the city, a drunken couple walked together, their laughter as bubbly as the champagne the two had drank. They held hands and kept each other balanced as they stumbled towards a dwelling, no doubt one of this pair’s. On the steps to the door, the two embraced, wrapping their arms around each other, and tenderly kissed before disappearing inside the building.

Metatron reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette that hadn’t been there a moment before, placed it between his lips, and with his left pinky finger, ablaze with holy fire, lit the end. He leaned against the stone columns connecting the towers he had nestled himself between, his eyes moving from one separate moment to the next. 

It wasn’t until Her hand was on his back that he even noticed he wasn’t alone anymore. He jumped at the touch, and stood rigid until he realized who it was that interrupted his brooding.

“Fucking Hell, do you always have to do that to me when I’m alone?” Metatron said, annoyance in his voice. God only returned a silent giggle at his perturbed state. 

“Yeah, that’s really funny. Scaring the bloody Hell out of me. A real laugh.” Returning to his leaning position, he placed the cigarette back between his lips, but God quickly snatched it away, clenching her fist around the smoking paper and tobacco. When Her hand unfolded, the whole thing had vanished into thin air. 

Metatron rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t tell me those are bad for me. I wasn’t even inhaling, I can’t. You should know that, seeing as You made me.” 

God smiled and shook Her head, brown curls of hair swishing from the motion. Sure, She made Metatron, and appointed him as Her Messenger, but She didn’t make him so sulky. That was a trait he picked up all on his own. 

She joined him in his leaning against the stone and stared up at the bell tower to Her right, watching the pigeons nestling there for the night, but eventually followed his eyes downward to each simultaneous situation. There, the girl in the coffee shop, elsewhere that couple, someone content with a book and a place to sit, another asleep on a park bench with no other place to call home. And Metatron seemed enraptured by each of them, just like She had been when She made them. 

Her hand touched his back again, more gently this time, right where his wings connected with the rest of him, and as he turned around to meet Her gaze, Her dark eyes twinkled with a question. Words, Her words, raced through his mind. 

“Don’t ask me why I’m here like You don’t already know.” Metatron scoffed at the silent inquisition, but soon explained himself as Her expression became persistent. “I came down here to think. It’s quiet, and I’m not constantly bombarded with questions or requests from the other choirs, or You for that matter.” God rolled Her eyes at the statement, and Metatron chuckled. “You and I both know You can be a handful at times.” God did know this. She smiled at him. 

Metatron’s eyes trailed right back towards the rest of Paris. “Besides all that, there’s a view.” He tilted his head in the direction of the Seine River, where a sliver of the moon reflected itself upon the water, the light rippling with each wave. “It’s nice to look out on the water like this.”

God let out another chuckle, and nudged Her Voice as if to get him to tell the truth. She knew where his eyes had been moments before. 

“What? You think I can’t just appreciate the moonlight on the river?” Metatron turned his head away from Her. She nudged him again, wanting to hear what he was thinking aloud. 

“Alright, Good Lord, I’ll say it, but only because You’re going to ruin my suit jacket otherwise.” He turned back to Her. “They’re... well, they’re interesting, to say the least. Good entertainment, when they’re not being downright awful.” 

God smiled at him. She had always known about his soft spot for humanity. It was nice to finally hear him admit it. But there was more he wasn’t saying.

“Oh, don’t give me that face, it’s not as if it were a huge secret.” Metatron turned his back on the Seine and faced the other side of the Notre Dame. “You send me to talk to them all the time. And most of my free time I use to worry about them.” 

God turned to face the same direction, but Her eyes never left Her companion. Metatron thought about conjuring up another cigarette, but knew the fate of the next would be the same as the first, and so continued to look forward until he couldn’t bear the eyes of God on him any longer.

“What else do You want me to say here? Stop staring.” 

God raised an eyebrow at Metatron. She was going to get his confession. 

“Anything I have to say, You already know.”

She smirked at him, and in turn received a scowl. 

“‘Pride is a sin,’ right. That’s why there’s a Hell.” Metatron dragged a hand down his face. “Fine. If you absolutely have to hear me say it.” God’s expression became eager. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like. To be like them. Human.”

A grin erupted from God’s face at Metatron’s words. She placed a hand on his shoulder as the sound of a genuine and beautiful laugh escaped Her mouth. 

“Why’s that funny?” 

God shook Her head. It wasn’t funny, just a relief that he wasn’t denying himself any longer. Her grin became even larger when a thought crossed Her mind.

“Stop smiling like that. It’s terrifying.” 

God tugged Metatron’s arm, turning him back towards the city, still smiling like a maniac. She gestured towards the landscape, bouncing on Her toes with excitement at Her own idea. 

Metatron furrowed his brows in response. “What the Hell are you on about? Making me human...?” 

God nodded her head violently, curls bouncing every which way. Metatron’s eyes widened in bewilderment. 

“You’re suggesting You give me a week to live as human?” What the fucking Hell was She thinking?

God nodded Her head again. If She could do it to indulge in Her skeeball habits, why couldn’t She allow Metatron the same privilege for awhile? 

“And You’re okay with that?” Several things crossed his mind as he analyzed the implications. What if something happens, like another person needs to be told of their martyrdom? What about another apocalyptic stunt caused by somebody meddling with dogmatic loopholes? Or what if God tries to give fish legs again? Anything could go wrong while he was gone.

God rolled Her eyes and nodded. Of course She was okay with it, if She wasn’t, She never would have made the suggestion. Her Voice worried too much. This would be good for him, not having to act on Holy Duties for a while. 

Metatron looked down from the Notre Dame to the street directly below. Something else was bothering him now. 

“How will I get back to You?” His brows had knitted themselves back into an expression of worry. “If I agree to this, what will happen when my time is up?” 

God had already thought of this. She gave him a look of reassurance and pointed directly downwards to the steps of the cathedral. 

“‘Just come back here?’ And wait for you to show up?” 

She nodded, and covered Her face in a gesture that could only mean She would disguise Herself to come find him when he was ready.

Metatron let out a huff. “I guess I’d know You better than anyone, even if we were both hiding among the humans.” God smiled. As Her Voice, he was indeed the closest to Her that any one of Her angels have ever gotten. There was no question about the difficulty of finding each other when the Metatron was needed back in Heaven. 

“Right, I guess we’re doing this then?” 

God nodded rapidly. She grabbed Metatron’s hand and led him closer to the edge of the building. She touched his wings, and immediately they disappeared.

“Is there a magic word or something?” God didn’t answer as She edged him onto the ledge. “Anything?”

Her hand came up to close his eyes. The heels of Metatron’s feet were the only things touching the stone of the cathedral now. 

God kissed Her angel’s cheek, and before he knew it, he was falling downwards, wind whipping around his head as he hurtled towards the ground.


	2. Monday: 1

Metatron jolted awake, sweating and breathing heavily as he sat up in the bed he found himself in. The room around him was dark, only dim lamplight coming through the window. Focusing on the flickering orange of the bulb, Metatron managed to slow his breathing to a reasonable pace. 

He could’ve sworn just moments before that he was fixing to hit pavement. Oh, wait, he _was_. That wasn’t a dream. God had sent him hurdling off a famous church in France for the theatrics of it all. He’d damn Her if it weren’t a sin, scaring him like that. 

He rubbed the middle of his forehead with two fingers, and suddenly had a thought. _Where am I?_

The room was almost entirely empty, except for the bed and a side table with a plain lamp resting on top. Other than this, there was a closet opposite the bed, the door of which was ajar. Metatron could make out the forms of hanging clothes inside. Above the closet door, a round-faced clock ticked its seconds by. Half past 5 o’clock in the morning. To the left of the closet was another door, one he could only assume led elsewhere.

Metatron flipped the lamp on, threw the blanket that covered him to the side, and began to stand from the bed. Immediately he realized something was off. He was naked. And in the place of the usual void of mons that he likened to a Ken doll was an actual piece of equipment—real, organic parts. 

“Sweet Jesus—what the _bloody Hell?_ ” He was absolutely shocked, but who wouldn’t be if they suddenly woke up with a penis that wasn’t there before? He suddenly remembered the creation of Adam, and the five Adams prior, realizing the packages God had given them were much larger; this was probably for a reason. All the same, a pang of emotion hit him. Jealousy. And jealousy for such a stupid reason. Metatron shook his head at his own thoughts. He had to make himself stop staring at it, otherwise he felt he’d go blind. Are all humans fixated on their genitals like this? he thought. He knew that prophet Jay was, but Metatron thought that behavior was attributed to the fact that the little shit was a freak of nature, not because he was human. 

Metatron focused his glance everywhere except downwards as he moved towards the closet. There had to be some underwear, pants, something he could wear to cover himself. Sure enough, under all the hanging clothes was a small chest of drawers, and in the top slot were seven pairs of underpants, along with seven pairs of socks. He grabbed one pair of underpants, a dark grey color, and quickly slid them on, noticing how uncomfortable the elastic waistband was. He’d just have to ignore that for now. 

Checking the other drawer, he found seven white undershirts and one pair of grey sweatpants. Metatron grimaced. Of course God would be one to try to provide him some comfort while he was away, but there’s no way in Heaven, Hell, or any in between that he would wear sweatpants. Ignoring the presence of those hideous things, he reached into the drawer, grabbed one of the white shirts, and threw it on. 

Near the drawers were a few different pairs of shoes. He made note of the different styles—Italian-style dress shoes, leather boots, and sneakers. All were black. 

Above the drawer were pants and dress shirts of different colors, along with three different jackets: one was black leather with large front pockets, another was a dark blue denim, and the last was a long grey trench coat. Wait, that was his trench coat. Looking to the left of his coat he saw other things that were his: black, dark brown, and deep maroon suits, all with jacket and pants, along with a green hooded sweatshirt. “Oh, thank God,” he whispered. He may have very well lost it if he were left only with the sweatpants and other unfamiliar pieces. 

Behind him, Metatron noticed a stronger light begin to peek through the window. He looked above him at the clock. Almost 6 AM now. He took one of his suits—the black one—out of the closet, accompanied by his green hoodie, and put them on. 

Before choosing his shoes for the day, Metatron peeked out the door that led elsewhere. A window streamlined more morning light into another blank room, with only a plain couch, a coffee table, and to the right, a small kitchen. He crept out of his room to explore more of the area. 

Metatron immediately regretted stepping onto the cold tile with no socks, but he was already in the room. No time to turn back now. He kept moving, and soon his feet had adjusted to the temperature of the floor.

To his right, in the kitchen, a piece of paper caught his eye near the sink. As he neared, he noticed chaotic scribbling written in a light blue ink. He picked up the note. 

It took a moment for Metatron to decipher the poor handwriting, surprised to find the chicken scratch was Cyrillic—and that his now-human brain could still comprehend Cyrillic. As Messenger, Metatron knew many languages, even the lost and dead ones. _Money in spoon drawer. Have fun._ Under the messy writing, a crudely drawn smiley face beamed at him. Metatron rolled his eyes and smirked, knowing full well God’s handwriting has never been good-looking—part of the reason why She needed Metatron around, besides Her incomprehensible and booming vocals. Despite this, he felt grateful that She had put this much thought into his vacation. 

Metatron looked in the drawer directly under the note and, luckily, found an old, crumpled American fifty dollar bill amongst several bent and rusty spoons. At least now he had a clue as to where he was. He flattened the bill out before folding it neatly and placing it in his pocket. 

Metatron felt a rumble from inside him. Almost by instinct, he turned to the refrigerator to the left of him, and, curious, pulled the lower door open. Nothing inside. _At least She left money,_ he thought. 

Letting the refrigerator door swing shut, Metatron turned his head towards the living room. The sunlight coming through the window was now bright enough to capture his attention. He walked towards the window, and once there noticed dancing shadows cast from the fat leaves of a tree swaying in the breeze. The movement was entrancing. He opened the window, and as he did so, the gust of wind that moved the leaves tickled his face and ruffled his hair. A small smile found itself on Metatron’s lips. Peace. He felt peace. 

The moment faded, though, as he felt a larger pain in his stomach. It wasn’t pleasant. He knew he needed to find food, and fast. He closed the window in a swift motion and made his way back to the room to grab his shoes—the Italian-style ones. 

Soon enough, Metatron rushed out the door into the world ahead of him.


	3. Monday: 2

Sulking, Metatron pushed the door of the Mooby’s open as he walked out, still hungry, muttering about how ridiculous the service was. Apparently, the cashiers weren’t allowed to take fifty dollar bills for small orders, and wouldn’t even break the damn thing into tens. What’s worse, Metatron had called what he had wanted “chips,” and the idiot taking his order didn’t understand what he was talking about. “We don’t serve chips here, sir. Just fries.” They were the same thing according to Metatron; was it so hard to figure out what he was talking about? _Use context clues_ , he thought. _I’ve got a different accent, put two and two together._ The heels of his shoes clicked on the pavement as he slunk down the sidewalk.

They sky overhead had gone from a cheery blue to a dark overcast in the time it had taken him to go inside that damned fast food place and argue with that ignoramus of a teenager. The air was slightly humid—a sign of incoming rain. _Great, just what I need, to be starving and drenched._

As he continued down the street, his mind wandered. Was it a bad idea to make this deal with God? He had only begun the week, but worry was creeping in. He still didn’t have any idea where he was, no idea how he was going to be able to obtain any kind of sustenance with what was left for him, no idea how to get back to Paris, and to top it all off, feelings of loneliness began to penetrate his mind. He missed Her. He had no idea how he was going to survive this week. 

One more step, and a feeling of dread made his stomach drop. A familiar voice from behind him made his blood run cold and his scowl deepen.

“Aw man, Silent Bob, looks like it’s about to fuckin’ rain, man. This fuckin’ sucks. We were supposed to deal today, and now the fuckin’ sky’s gonna go and fuckin’ ruin it and shit. Gonna be wetter than your mom last night after I had my face in her pussy. Snoogans.” 

It was the prophets: the loud mouthed blonde Jay and his silent bearded friend, Bob. Metatron let out a hard breath as he listened to the filth pouring out of Jay’s mouth. He dared not turn around to look at the two. Suddenly realizing he had stopped in his tracks at the sound of the babble, he quickly picked up the pace again.

Jay’s eyes followed the figure walking by them, and as Silent Bob looked in the same direction, his partner had a revelation. “Hey, wait, Lunchbox! It’s that fuckin’ angel from when those two dudes killed a bunch of fuckers at the church!” Silent Bob’s face lit up like the cigarette in his mouth at the mention of Metatron, and the pair trailed after him. 

This could not get worse.

Jay’s hand slapped Metatron’s back, and Metatron shot up like a rocket.

“Heeeyyy, it’s the man!” Jay beamed at Metatron as they walked, frizzy long hair flowing in the breeze. “How’s it fuckin’ goin’? New Jersey treatin’ your ass right?” 

New Jersey. Of course he’d wake up in New Jersey, of all the places God could’ve sent him. Why here?

“Fine,” Metatron replied curtly, still avoiding eye contact with the two following him. 

“Fuck yeah, man, I can definitely say the same for myself and the fat-ass over here.” 

Metatron glanced at Silent Bob, noticing the annoyed expression crossing his face. Metatron quickened his steps to try to escape the madness.

Silent Bob nudged Jay’s shoulder and gestured to Metatron, requesting he ask the angel another question. “Oh. Hey, uhh...” 

“Do you even remember my name?” Metatron’s voice was sour. 

“‘Course I do! It’s... it’s uh...” Jay looked to Silent Bob for a hint. Bob gestured with his hands, and Jay reacted as if he’d been hit with lightning. “Oh! Megatron!”

Silent Bob glared at Jay. Metatron sneered, but didn’t correct him.

Jay bumped his arm with his elbow. “Anyway, the fuck you doin’ in Jersey, man?” Bob watched Metatron’s face, waiting for him to speak. “That fine-ass chick you work for send you down here to stop some more psycho motherfuckers from ending the world or some shit?” Jay mimicked a fight, punching and kicking at the air. “‘Cuz me and Silent Bob, man, we ain’t doin’ any important shit if you need an ass kickin’ posse again.” 

Metatron swore he could feel the migraine spread around his head. He gritted his teeth. “I’m here on holiday, leave me be.” 

The pure annoyance in Metatron’s words didn’t deter the pair in the least. 

“Aw, fuck yeah, man! Vacay in Jersey!” Jay pumped his fist in the air again, and Silent Bob nodded at the the thought of a vacation. “You need any good tourist spots to chill at?” Jay asked. “‘Cuz we got a few chill ass fuckin’ spots, man, like the Quick Stop, you can chill with us and help—“

Metatron turned on his heels, his face in the dirtiest look he could give as he glared Jay down, straight in the eyes. “I’ve got no interest in standing outside a convenience store for hours on end, selling drugs to anyone who walks by.” Metatron looked from Jay to Bob, retaining the scowl. Bob’s eyes widened, realizing their mistake in chatting him up. “Leave me alone, the both of you.” Metatron turned back around and ducked right into the nearest building available, hoping for some sanctuary. 

Silent Bob shot Jay another glare and slapped him upside the head, knocking his black beanie sideways. 

“Ow, fuck dude! The fuckin’ Hell was that for?” Jay yelped. 

Bob rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. 

“It’s not my fault the fucker lost his goddamn temper! I didn’t do shit besides ask him a few fuckin’ questions, and some of them were yours!”

Bob raised an eyebrow and shook his head. He raised his hand up and began to move it as if it were a talkative goose, then mimed smoking a joint, using his cigarette as a prop. Bringing up his second hand, Bob formed a pair of wings with his hands and tilted his head towards Metatron’s path. He smacked Jay’s arm, emphasizing the mistake made. 

“Fuck man, I talk too much and you don’t talk enough.” Jay rubbed the back of his head and readjusted his beanie. 

Silent Bob sighed and shook his head once more. Dropping his cigarette, he motioned for his friend to walk through the door Metatron had entered. 

“Fine, I’ll fuckin’ apologize, but if he gets mad that we followed him, that’s on your ass, man.” Jay opened the glass door the two stood in front of, a chime sounding as they entered. 

————————

As Metatron entered the store, the smell of dust, lavender, and old paper hit his nose. The large room was dimly lit and was sectioned off into different factions of items: records, cassette tapes, and CDs in one corner; bookshelves lining the walls with titles and contradicting statements of all sorts; antique clothing, furniture, and other collectibles to the side, including different taxidermied animals; and in the center of the room, a large display of different crystals, charms, and statuettes of different deities, one of which was a light-skinned Jesus, winking and giving a thumbs up. Above, amongst the ceiling hangings and different odd chandeliers, speakers played quick, cacophonous, but enjoyable music. Or at least that’s what Metatron thought the noise was. 

A monotone voice greeted him. “Welcome to George’s. If you need help, come ask.” 

Metatron turned to the corner counter where the voice originated from, near the vinyls. There, leaning casually, was a person with a very bored expression on their face. Metatron couldn’t tell if they were male or female—maybe both, or neither? Nothing about them gave any clue. Their short hair was a silvery grey—another oddity, as this person couldn’t be older than thirty. Head to toe, they wore black, except for a pair of rose-tinted octagonal shades and an army green jacket tied about their waist. Needless to say, Metatron thought this person fit in well among all the other weird items in the shop. 

He pulled the fifty dollar bill from his pocket and began to approach the counter, realizing that moment would be an opportunity to exchange it for more easily spendable bills. 

“Excuse me—“ Metatron started, but was interrupted by the chime of the door as it opened. The pair of stoners he had left outside walked into the store. He scowled.

He wasn’t going to be rid of them, was he? 

“Whoa, man, what the fuck?” Jay looked around frantically, taking in all of the weird things he saw for sale. “Look at all this shit, Silent Bob! They have like, dead animals for sale!” He pointed across the room to a taxidermy sculpture of a mouse dressed as a cowboy, riding a rattlesnake as if it were a bucking bull. “What the fuckin’ fuck is that?” Jay ran off to get a better look at the roadkill-turned-art, leaving Silent Bob alone as he walked towards the counter where Metatron was now standing.

“Hey, Bob,” the cashier said, slightly more emotion in their voice. “I see you brought your mouthpiece this time.” 

Bob nodded and lopsidedly smiled before looking back to his friend, who was now pressing his fingers into the rattlesnake’s fangs to test the sharpness. 

“Just make sure he doesn’t break anything, okay?” the cashier said, “I don’t need my boss on my ass for broken merchandise.” 

Silent Bob pointed at the grey haired person and winked, signaling that he understood. He took another look at Metatron with an apology in his eyes, but the angel didn’t meet his gaze. His attention was on the strange cashier.

“I’m sorry, but you know these two?” Metatron asked. 

“Who _doesn’t_ know these two in this town?” The cashier shifted their weight from one foot to the next as they turned to face Jay, keeping an eye on him as he went from taxidermy to antique lingerie, pulling the pink frilly things off the rack to hold up to his own body and Silent Bob’s. “They’re like a virus, they pop up everywhere, even when you think you’re safe from them.” The cashier shook their head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d assume someone had cloned them and assigned a pair to follow around each person that lives here.” 

“That’s certainly a theory,” Metatron said, a smirk playing on his lips.

The cashier chuckled. “Easily debunked, though. Bob comes in here all the time without the walking stick, buys himself some new cassette tapes every now and then.” They turned their head to face Metatron. “If anyone had cloned them, it would be easier to make them stick together. Less probability that someone would see more than one of them together at a time.” 

Jay pulled a pair of leather chaps off the rack as Silent Bob put the frilled lingerie back where Jay had found it. “You think this is a fetish store, Lunchbox?” He started to laugh, and Bob furrowed his brow. 

“Hey,” the cashier projected their voice across the room, “put those back unless you wanna pay seventy-five bucks for ‘em.” 

“Fuckin’ Hell, man, shit’s expensive!” Jay threw the chaps back on the rack. 

“Sure is. Lots of this stuff is antique. Don’t mess it up unless you can pay for it,” the cashier retorted before turning back to Metatron. “You get used to this kind of shit with them.”

“Believe me, I’ve had my share,” Metatron said. 

“In what way?” The cashier smiled at him.

Metatron did some quick math before speaking. “Well, you could say they, er, did a favor for my friend.” An easy way to explain the pair’s prophethood. “Helped watch over some things while He was in hospital.” Technically, he wasn’t lying. 

The cashier laughed. “I couldn’t trust them to help me with anything.” 

“I’d agree with you,” Metatron leaned against the counter, “but my friend, He felt He could trust them, and despite their rather annoying behavior, and the fact that I’d rather not have to be in their presence for much longer or ever again, well... they proved themselves. More than I ever expected from them.” 

Silent Bob, overhearing this exchange, smiled to himself. He turned around to Jay and tapped him on the shoulder. 

“What?” Jay turned around, holding a replica of the Woman of Willendorf, deep in concentration on the statue’s large breasts. Bob snatched the figure out of his hands and pointed to Metatron, signaling that now would be the time to apologize for their previous conversation. 

The two sauntered back over to the counter, catching the attention of the cashier, who smiled in amusement at their proud walk. Metatron took no notice, and when Jay’s hand connected with his shoulder, he shot up once again.

“Jesus Christ, do you have to keep doing that?” Metatron glared at Jay. 

Silent Bob looked at Jay, waiting for him to speak. Jay avoided Metatron’s stare. 

“Sorry for freakin’ you out, man. And, uh...” Jay looked at Bob, who nodded for him to continue. “Sorry for like, getting up in your space and shit, and askin’ if you wanted to help us sell weed and stuff. Silent Bob here made it clear that we gotta respect you, seein’ as you’re an angel and all that.”

Metatron raised an eyebrow and looked from Jay to Silent Bob, who nodded in confirmation of his friend’s words. The cashier’s eyes darted from the pair to Metatron, absolute confusion on their face. 

“Apology accepted,” Metatron said, “but only on the grounds that you stop making me jump every time you need my attention.”

“Snooch to the nooch!” Jay held his fist out to Silent Bob, who bumped it with his own. The two beamed at Metatron.

“Okay, wait,” the cashier interrupted, “did I just hear you two say this guy is an angel?” 

Jay opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Metatron quickly interjected.

“Well, in a manner of speaking, yes. I’m, er, involved in the church.” He shot a look to Jay and Silent Bob, imploring them not to say a single syllable. “Spreading the word of God and all that.”

“What, like a priest?” The cashier backed up from the counter just a bit, now uncomfortable with the situation they found themself in. 

“No, no,” Metatron shook his head, “you couldn’t pay me to be a priest, not with all the other responsibilities I have to take care of. Besides,” his deep voice dropped, “with all the corruption in church office, people would look at me weird. I get that enough already.”

The cashier seemed to relax, then frowned again. “You’re not here to convert people in the store, then, are you? ‘Cuz my boss, he’d kill me if I let anyone do that in or around this place.” 

“Oh, God, no. People that do that miss the whole point. You know, one of the first rules is to love thy neighbor as thyself, and I don’t think any one of them would appreciate some strange zealot trying to push their beliefs on them.” 

The cashier nodded. “You make a fair point.” 

“I do. That’s part of my job.” Metatron smiled again. 

The cashier returned the grin. “You got a name, guy?”

“Only one of the dopest names I ever fuckin’ heard, man,” Jay piped up. “Fuckin’ Megatron.” 

“Like the bad guy from Transformers...?” The cashier’s eyes moved to each of the three men before them, even more confusion settling into their face. 

“Metatron,” Silent Bob finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, directing his words at Jay. “His name’s Metatron, you dumb fuck.”

“Hey, don’t call me a dumb fuck, you dumb fuck!” Jay shouted. Silent Bob rolled his eyes and didn’t speak again.

Metatron pinched the bridge of his nose. 

The cashier snorted. “That’s the weirdest name I’ve ever heard, though I guess it’s better than being named after a robot. Which,” they raised an eyebrow, “you seem a little old to have a name from an eighties cartoon.”

“I’m going to ignore your jab at my age.” Metatron crossed his arms, now conscious that he surpassed everyone in the room in terms of age by eons. “‘Metatron’ isn’t exactly a common name,” he began, a bit of fire in his voice, “but it means something important. ‘Instrument of God.’”

“So your parents were Jesus freaks,” the cashier said, “and they roped you into the business the minute you were born.”

_So close to the truth,_ Metatron thought. 

The cashier continued. “Either that, or they foresaw all the teasing you were gonna get and decided it would be good for you, like a ‘Boy Named Sue’ deal.”

Metatron didn’t understand the reference. He cocked one expressive eyebrow upwards.

“Johnny Cash? Best Western singer this country’s ever had?” The cashier looked at him in disbelief. 

“I can’t say that type of thing was ever in my circle of interests.” 

“Well, makes sense. A Brit like you, you were probably more into those weird alien serials than cowboys and vigilante justice.” The cashier chuckled. “Tell you what, you come back later around my lunch break, say about...” a moment of thought, “twelve o’clock? I think that’s break time... Anyway, come back then, and I’ll show you some Cash stuff.”

“Well, I’ve got nothing better to do. Might as well.” Metatron smirked again. 

Wait. Cash. Shit, he almost forgot. 

Metatron stuffed his hand back in his pocket, pulled out the fifty dollar bill, and placed it on the counter.

“Before I go, would it be possible to exchange this for some smaller bills?”

“Sure, I can do that.” The cashier’s mouth turned upwards in a mischievous grin. “But you’re gonna have to buy something first.”

Metatron sighed. 

“What? You talk me up this whole time and you’re not gonna buy anything?” The cashier laughed again at Metatron’s look of utter discontent.

“If you must know, talking is the main aspect of my job. I have to be good at it.” 

“I could tell. It’s all you’ve done.” 

Metatron shook his head and snickered. He looked around, eyes finally settling on a display of necklaces right near the counter, most of them marked for cheap. He’d be out around five dollars; not terrible. Of the pendants and medallions of all types—UFOs, dragons, sea shells, potion bottles—one charm stood out: a small silver circle. Inside it were thirteen smaller circles, all connected by perfectly straight lines. Sacred geometry.

Metatron gently removed the necklace from the display and placed it on the counter. 

“Funny, you don’t look the type to buy jewelry,” the cashier said.

“Just ring me up, would you?” Metatron asked, a twinge of displeasure in his voice, despite his feelings of amusement.

The cashier rang up the necklace, took his fifty dollars, and gave him his change: four tens and a five. No tax.

Upon receiving the bills, relief washed over him. “Thanks, er...” Metatron paused. He didn’t ever get the name of the cashier. 

“Sammy. Sammy Graves.” 

“Well, Sammy Graves, you can keep this.” Metatron scooted the geometric pendant towards them. “I just needed the change.”

Sammy’s eyes looked from the pendant on the counter to Metatron. They stared back at the necklace for a moment before pocketing it. “First time for everything, I guess—“

“Hey, wait a fuckin’ second!” Jay exclaimed from across the room, now in the records. The conversation overheard triggered his memory. “Zombie Graves, that’s you?!” 

The sound of thunder overtook the store, and the patter of rain danced on the roof. Sammy’s face immediately fell at the mention of the nickname, a harsh tone snaking its way into their voice. “Yeah, it’s me, Jay.”

“Well there’s a big fuckin’ surprise!” Jay looked to Silent Bob as the two approached the counter again. “You remember this bitch, right, Lunchbox?”

Silent Bob furrowed his brow, but nodded. Sammy’s face paled, knowing what was to happen next.

“Yeah, you do. Who could forget a classic high school story of some bitch passed out in a fuckin’ puddle of her own blood in the girl’s bathroom, practically fuckin’ dead, when suddenly someone walks in, screams bloody murder, and she gets back up and walks her ass out into the hallway—“

“I’m not a girl, Jay.” Sammy’s knuckles were white, fists resting on the counter. “Shut up.” 

Metatron kept his gaze on Sammy, the terror of the story told sinking itself into him. How could that happen? Why? He was as curious as he was horrified.

“Hey, I’m just tellin’ the story ‘cuz it’s some of the most metal shit that ever happened in that shitty ass high school of ours.” Jay squinted, eyeing Sammy up and down. “And whaddya fuckin’ mean you’re not a girl?”

“I mean, I’m not a girl. So don’t call me one.” Sammy crossed their arms over their flat chest. Jay took note. “A lot of shit changed when I left that fucking school.”

“Yeah, I’ll fuckin’ say. You’re not a girl no more, your tits are gone, and now your hair’s all grey like you’re old enough to start shittin’ yourself. You dye it that color?”

“It got this way after a shit ton of stress from what happened, which now, from your retelling, some stranger knows when he doesn’t need to.” Sammy kept their eyes off all three of the people staring at them. “Get the Hell out of here.” 

“Now wait a fuckin’ minute, you can’t just kick us out—“

“I’m not kicking all of you out,” Sammy cut Jay off, “I’m kicking _you_ out, Jay, because that hole in your face you call a mouth doesn’t have any kind of filter, and you don’t know when to stop talking.” 

Silent Bob covered his face with his palm, embarrassed. 

“This is bullshit!” Jay shouted. 

Sammy turned to Silent Bob. “If you wanna keep coming here, I think you should take him outside.” 

Silent Bob nodded, gripping Jay’s arm like a vice and turning towards the door. Jay continued to spout nonsense as he was escorted out.

Sammy shook their head and closed their eyes, quelling a silent rage building inside. Metatron kept his eyes on them. The store was quiet, except for the speakers, now playing slow, moody tunes.

After several moments, Metatron opened his mouth. “How did—“

“Don’t,” Sammy said. “You don’t need to know. And I don’t like thinking about it.” 

Metatron exhaled, thinking of something he could say to diffuse the bomb of tension. Only one thing came to mind. 

“I’m sorry.”

Sammy looked up, meeting intensely dark, sympathetic eyes. The two said nothing. 

Metatron turned then to walk out the door. 

“Offer to come back at twelve still stands,” Sammy said, interrupting the silence. 

Metatron turned his head to look at them one last time. 

“Only if you want to,” they finished.

“I still have nothing better to do,” Metatron replied. He smiled crookedly before turning back towards the door, reaching back to flip the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. 

The rain was coming down hard.


	4. Monday: 3

The bell of the oddities shop rang as the door closed behind Metatron. The sound of strange music was replaced with the sound of a one-voiced argument. Metatron grimaced. 

“I mean, that was a cool fuckin’ story, Silent Bob! Someone comin’ back from the dead is dope shit!” Jay kicked a chunk of loose concrete down the street. “I just don’t think the bitch gets how fuckin’ awesome having a story like that is.”

Silent Bob shook his head, his face scrunched in slight disgust. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the shop window. 

“I think it would do you well to not call that cashier such harsh words,” Metatron said, involving himself in the conversation. “Even more so since they aren’t a woman, as you keep insinuating.” 

“I still don’t understand how that fuckin’ works, man,” Jay turned towards Metatron. “There’s chicks and there’s dudes, and whatever you’re born as, that’s what you are, right? That’s not something you can fuckin’ change.”

“Things change for you lot all the time,” Metatron retorted, “and somehow you always react badly, even if it doesn’t affect you in any sort of way.” He shook some of the rain off his shoulders. 

“That shit don’t bother you at all?” Jay asked. 

“As a matter of fact, no.” Metatron rolled his eyes. “The One I work for is ever-changing in form and reference. Not always a He, or a She, or either of those. It’s just easier to refer to Her with whatever pronouns you all find most comfortable. It’s not hard for me to keep up with that, and it’s not hard to accept this. Besides,” Metatron crossed his arms, “if you remember any part of that bloody conversation, you’d remember that Sammy Graves said they were never a woman to begin with. Technically speaking, nothing about them really changed, just your perception on their physical form.”

Jay didn’t seem to understand anything that was just said.

Silent Bob spoke, cigarette still hanging out of his mouth. “The only thing that changed about Zombie was how you see them.” 

“Exactly.” Metatron nodded at Silent Bob. 

“Well, then what about the missing tits?” Jay asked.

“My God,” Metatron exclaimed, “I don’t know, I didn’t ask! It’s not my business anyways.” He quickly turned on his heels and began to walk in the opposite direction. “I swear on the Almighty, I bet we couldn’t penetrate that skull of yours if we used a pickaxe,” he muttered under his breath.

“Hey, wait!” Jay shouted as he and Silent Bob followed Metatron once again. “Where you goin’, man?”

“Finding food,” Metatron answered. “I haven’t eaten a thing.”

“Hey, we know a good place,” Jay said. “There’s a Mooby’s down the street—“

“Christ, anywhere but Mooby’s.” Metatron turned to face the two following him, scowling.

“Okay, fine.” Jay and Silent Bob exchanged a look with each other. “How’s about Quick Stop?”

“It could be Hell for all I care, just as long as they have something edible.” 

The two stoners led the way.

——————

This was worse than Hell.

The store was run-down, evident by broken floor tiles and the smell of must that filled their noses. Despite all this, everything had a place, from the snacks to the milk, even the pornographic magazines. 

This wasn’t terrible on its own. What made this experience as horrible as possible were the two clerks arguing _very_ loudly about the ethics of reciprocating oral sex. 

“I’m tellin’ ya, if you don’t gotta ask for a suckin’, ya don’t gotta give her some back,” the blond one said, his voice slightly nasally.

“Okay, that is definitely not true,” the dark-haired one retorted. His hand rested under his goateed chin. 

“No?”

Metatron made his way to the back of the store, trying to escape the conversation and to find something that seemed edible. The sound of the two clerks’ voices was grating on his ears. 

“No, it’s not true. It depends on the girl, what she wants. And even if it was true that you don’t have to reciprocate, who cares?”

“I do,” the blond one said. “You know me, if I don’t have to put in more work, than I won’t.” He flipped to the next page of a porno magazine on the counter. “Why don’t you care?”

“Maybe because I like doing it?” 

“What? Why?”

“I dunno. It’s fun. I like making girls feel good.” 

“Well, you’re not very good at that,” the blond one countered.

Jay interrupted the conversation. “Yeah, remember that one chick who made you lasagna and you tried to cheat on her? Fuckin’ brutal man. Even worse when that other chick fucked a dead guy thinking it was you.” He erupted into hysteric laughter, looking to Silent Bob for some kind of support, but not getting any. Bob was too busy perusing the newspapers. Jay turned back around raised a hand, waving at the two. “Hey, Randal. Dante.”

The two clerks, Randal the blond and Dante the bearded, exchanged a glance with each other. 

“Didn’t we tell you two not to come inside the store anymore?” Dante said, crossing his arms. 

“We sure did,” Randal replied, “after they flooded the bathroom trying to flush their weed supply when that cop came by last time and almost busted their asses.”

Silent Bob turned his attention to the conversation, frowning.

“Hey, man, I already got kicked outta one fuckin’ store today, don’t kick me out of another one!” Jay exclaimed. “Besides, we’re not dumping our stash. Actually buyin’ stuff this time.” He turned around and pointed to Metatron at the back of the store, eyeing a bag of potato chips and some beef jerky, trying hard not to listen. Bob nodded in agreement. 

Randal eyed Metatron, one eyebrow quirking up, his knuckles rapping against the counter. 

Dante looked puzzled. “What do you mean you got kicked out of one store already?” 

“Your cousin kicked me outta that weird fuckin’ shop two streets away,” Jay said, turning to Randal, the grump in his voice magnifying. “You know they’re not a girl anymore?” 

“Classic Sammy. Always the weirdo.” Randal closed the porno magazine. 

Dante raised his head. “Wait, wait, Sammy’s back in town? When?”

“Like a year ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because, Dante, any one of your exes shows up in your life and you go absolutely crazy. Besides, you two only dated for like a week before Sammy ghosted you. And then she freaked out and tried to kill herself because she’s absolutely fuckin’ bonkers.” 

“They,” Silent Bob murmured. Nobody seemed to notice.

“Hey, it was a woodshop accident, you know that.” Dante crossed his arms again.

“Do I?” Randal asked. “If it was an accident, why would Sammy go to the bathroom instead of the nurse?”

“Because the nurse at our school sucked! Remember that time a kid broke both one of his arms and a leg during football tryouts and she just told him to ice it? She didn’t even get the ice for him.”

“Oh yeah! That was Tim Zucker, wasn’t it? Little motherfucker snapped like a twig!” Jay started to cackle. “Good fuckin’ times, man.”

“Hey, I felt bad for the kid! Everyone started calling him Toothpick after that,” Dante recalled. 

“Thanks to yours truly,” Randal half-gloated. “Not one of my best, but it stuck.” 

“Your creativity knows no bounds,” Metatron said dryly. The two clerks and Jay were too caught up in their drivel to realize he had been waiting for a moment, beef jerky and potato chips in hand. 

“Hey, they can’t all be winners,” Randal nonchalantly retorted. “Best one of mine was Ass Face, after a kid on the hockey team got hit in the face so hard with the end of his hockey stick that it left an indent for a whole week. Looked like a perfect ass crack.”

“Wait, that was you?!” Dante’s voice suddenly shot up about two decibels. “That was the worst week of my high school career, Randal! You got everyone in school to call me Ass Face for a whole week?!”

“To be fair, we weren’t friends then. You were fair game.”

“That doesn’t— ugh, forget it!” Dante turned back towards the counter. “Two thirty si—“ He stopped short. The customer with the beef jerky and chips was gone. In his place, he had left a five dollar bill. 

Through the half-open door, Dante could see him walking away, shoulder scrunched, moving as quick as he could without running. “Hey, what about your change?”

Metatron didn’t answer.

Dante turned to Jay and Silent Bob. “You guys said you knew him, right?”

“Hell yeah, man. He’s—“

“I don’t care. Just give him his change, okay?” Dante pulled two dollar bills and several coins from the register, handing them to Jay. “Now, get out, alright?”

“Hey, no worries, man.” Jay turned towards the door, following Metatron, and Silent Bob followed, leaving Dante and Randal with a wave. 

As the door swung shut, Jay pocketed the change with no intention to return it. From behind them, the pair could hear Dante, irritated: “So what other stupid names did you come up with?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took months, i was too busy with school to write!


End file.
